Praying That We Meet Again, page 19
He presented his identity papers, movement order and travel warrants.
“To proceed to Larkhill, Sergeant. RFC training camp. Substantive rank of lieutenant for joining the RFC.”
“All correct, sir. When do you cease to be a captain, sir?”
“My colonel said I am a captain in the Hampshires until I join the RFC, Sergeant, and I am to keep the three pips until I reach the gatehouse at Larkhill.”
“That is my understanding of the regulations, sir. Pass through, sir. My private will lead you to the next train to depart.”
The sergeant was much of the opinion that any man going off to join the flyboys should be given an easy passage. Poor fellow was likely to be short-lived.
The railways depot did not resemble a station in any way. There was a cluster of lines coming to an end beside a dozen of platforms and loading bays, with hopeful passengers standing at each.
“Number Four, sir, is about to pull out. Six hospital cars, sir, and one for officer passengers.”
Peter sat down in the almost empty carriage and the train rolled out within the minute. He noticed men running to try to get aboard, none of them succeeding. He wondered why he had been given such preferential treatment.
The redcap asked the question of his sergeant.
“Griffin, Smith Two! What is son to the General and brother to the mad bugger what picked up the VC a few weeks back. And he’s got the ribbon of that new MC on his chest. He’s as bloody mad as his brother, I don’t doubt. No harm to looking after that sort, Smith Two. As well as that, he’s off to join the Flying Corps, poor bugger!”
The train made a rapid passage to Boulogne, no doubt because of the wounded that made up the bulk of its passengers. Stepping out at the much enlarged docks station, Peter went straight to the police at the barrier, papers in hand. He repeated his destination and identity to an old corporal.
His papers were checked and his name noted in a log of the day’s passengers.
“Ferry loading at Gate Four, sir. What have you by way of baggage, sir?”
“None, Corporal. Lost the lot in the big retreat. Given away my winter woollies. The uniform I am standing in is all I possess. I came out in August with a single trunk so I haven’t lost a great deal.”
“What do you intend to do for uniforms, sir?”
“Straight to Gieves and order more, Corporal. I am due to report at Larkhill on Monday morning and today is Wednesday… I think it is, anyway. Lose track of the days in the Salient. That gives enough time to pick up the basics.”
“Very good, sir. If you double, you will be able to get aboard the next boat out. There are four loading at Gate Four. The sergeant there will put you on the right one.”
Peter obeyed orders, reporting to another sergeant. There was only a thin trickle of men passing through the barriers. He had expected more.
The sergeant glanced at his papers, waved him through.
“First gangway on the left, sir. Officers’ accommodation on the next boat out. They have loaded the wounded aboard, so you won’t be in the way.”
The redcaps were respectful to an officer but Peter realised they knew they were in command. If they decided his papers were not correct, they had the power to arrest him on the spot.
“Thank you.”
The sergeant nodded, aware of Peter’s thoughts.
He climbed the gangway, stepped onto the ship’s deck, looked about him to see where to go.
“Field and general officers to the stern accommodation. All other officers amidships. Other ranks on deck at the forecastle.”
He moved to the appointed place, found himself in a large saloon with a very few officers sat at tables, the cabin three parts empty. A steward nodded him to a vacant chair.
“Ham sandwich and a pale ale, sir? Anything else, you pay for.”
“I have no money on me. Ham sandwich it is.”
“Salient, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Always come out from there with no baggage and empty pockets, sir.”
The ‘ham sandwich’ was four - thick cut bread and full of fresh meat, well buttered.
“Generally hungry, sir, most of the officers out of the Salient.”
A second glass of India Pale Ale appeared, gratis, as he finished the first.
At Dover he was directed onto the London train, no other destination served. The compartment was empty and he dozed to Victoria Station and then faced the problem of travelling across to Waterloo, penniless.
The redcaps at the barrier read his papers thoroughly, knowing they were the last hurdle any deserter must overcome. They saluted and passed him through.
“Just come out of the Salient and got no money on you, sir?”
Peter managed a smile, half expecting them to give directions for a long walk.
“By the big archway, sir. Small office what says ‘warrants’. Talk to them, sir.”
Peter had spotted the board, assumed it had meant warrant officers. He went across to the little window by the door.
“I have just come away from Ypres. The Salient. I have no money and the clothing I stand up in.”
A corporal pushed a form towards him.
“Name, rank, regiment, sir, if you please. Happens most days, sir. Block capitals, sir. Most men out of the Salient are shaking so much they can’t write joined-up.”
That was understandable. Peter was amazed that the Army made allowance for it.
“Very good, sir. Captains get ten pound, sir. Advance against arrears of pay, sir. Don’t know how that works out, myself, sir, making an advance against pay the Army owes you, but that’s what it goes down as.”
“While I have some money to take me to Gieves, I am not too worried how it works out, Corporal.”
“One five pound note. Four one-pound Treasury notes. Eight half crowns, sir, for convenience.”
“Thank you. Where is the taxi rank?”
“Round the corner to the left, sir. Might be better taking a bus, sir. Not many taxis about these days. Any one of the buses with Oxford Street up on the front, sir, if you are going to Gieves.”
Peter had never taken a bus before. It was an adventure. Amazingly, the bus conductor who took his money was a woman. It was hardly believable.
“Just back from France, sir? Things have changed a bit these last months. Sit down next to the platform, sir. I’ll tell you when to get off.”
She pointed out Gieves as well, suspecting he had never walked there before.
It was a relief to enter the old precincts of gentility, to escape from the new world of hustle and bustle.
“Peter Griffin, sir. Currently acting-captain in the Hampshires, to become RFC from Monday next as substantive lieutenant.”
“Very good, sir. RFC uniform or Hampshires with RFC badges? Either is convenable.”
“RFC, if you please. I have lost all of my uniforms, possess only the dress I am standing in. better make a completely new start.”
“Certainly, sir. The Griffin account, I presume?”
“If you please. I shall discuss the matter with my father when next I see him. I have no idea of how I stand financially just now. We did not see paymasters in the Salient.”
“So we have been told, sir. I think, sir, it will be wise to check your measurements. Those we took in July may no longer be wholly accurate.”
He was thinner, not an ounce of spare flesh remaining.
“The grey streaks in the hair are rather distinguished, sir. They were not present when last we saw you.”
Peter was unaware of them, peered in the nearby stand mirror.
“Good God! I am nineteen years old. That fellow in the mirror looks forty!”
“A hard few months, sir. You will observe the RFC tunic to be unlike the infantry pattern, buttoning to the side as it does.”
“Unusual. I am to report to Larkhill on Monday next. That leaves little time for fittings.”
“None at all, sir. Fortunately, the RFC does not make the same demands of a tailor as, for example, the Brigade of Guards. We shall deliver your trunks to Larkhill, sir. They will be awaiting you when you arrive. Two trunks, sir, though you will probably rarely use dress uniform, unless called to the Palace. That is the ribbon of the Military Cross, sir, which will appear properly. May I ask if you have received any other honour, sir?”
“Mention in Despatches, but that has no ribbon.”
“Some regiments wear a Mentions button on the necktie, sir. I will enquire of RFC habits.”
A brief discussion of shoes and flying boots and Peter was permitted to leave. Gieves had no difficulty in finding him a taxi to take him to Waterloo station.
Two hours saw him on the doorstep of the Place, greeted by Alfred and Robert.
“Wounded, old chap?”
“Not me! I leave that to the heroes of the family! No, I am transferred to the RFC, at my own request. Due to start training on Monday. Dropped into Gieves on my way through. John is a major, did you know? He was untouched when I left him this morning. The colonel thought I should be sent away from the presence of staff officers, for lacking the patience to deal with imbeciles.”
They laughed, accepting it was a problem any man might be faced with in the Army.
Chapter Twelve
Four days at home was hardly long enough to unwind. Peter found himself unable to sleep for as much as two hours unbroken, jerking awake, jumping out of bed, grabbing for his boots before relaxing as he recognised his own old room. Then it would be to sit down, relax, calm his thumping heart, persuade himself back to bed, drop off for another uneasy hour or two before repeating.
He was downstairs before dawn, sitting with a book, accepting a cup of tea, an early breakfast, watching the sun rise through the clouds of a wet winter.
Alfred joined him an hour later, Robert never moving before full light.
“Not sleeping, Peter?”
“Need to break the habit of the line, Alfred.”
“Took me a month to sleep more than two hours unbroken.”
They breakfasted, quietly content that each knew exactly what the other had been through.
“It don’t matter too much what comes next, Alfred. After the fighting in the Salient, the rest of my life is anticlimax.”
“Everything after the age of eighteen is a lesser experience… A pity, but I suspect you are right, brother. We shall never know the like of that again. Nearly four months on the march, fighting most days, then weeks in the trench line, never less than active. Unique, I suspect, Peter. There will be those of us who were there and all those who will never know anything quite the same. Can we ever go back to a war of movement?”
“No. The defence is stronger than the attack. Even when we were pushed back, we won every battle, killing more of them than we lost. Until a new form of war is invented, we cannot win, and neither can they. All that can sensibly be done is to dig deeper and cut our losses.”
Alfred agreed.
“It is obvious to any man with two brain cells to rub together that we are at stalemate. We cannot win in France. Neither can we lose. This war must be won elsewhere, or, much more sensibly, be brought to an early negotiated peace. The sole sensible course for the Army is to stand still in France and devote its energies to other fronts. I do not know if this business in Turkey will do the job. It seems an unlikely place to commit troops. A mountainous peninsula with multiple lines of defence, difficult to get supplies in or casualties out. Not my choice of a fighting ground.”
“Only wogs, Alfred! Get the cavalry in. One good charge and the business will be done and dusted!”
They laughed. Both feared that was exactly how the generals and politicians had thought.
“Anything planned for today, Peter? My last week of idleness. I start with de Havilland next Tuesday and will settle back into rooms in the College from Wednesday. Four days a week of the old academic grind and one day of strictly practical application of mathematics to manufacture. It promises to be fascinating.”
“In uniform or out, Alfred?”
“In, for the meanwhile. My precise status is to be discussed at some length. It might be convenient to make me an Engineer, so that I can be kept informed of all that is happening in military circles. As a civilian, I must be kept ignorant of secret inventions.”
“From the little I have heard, it might be more comfortable to have a uniform to wear. I hear strange tales of white feathers and such for men in civilian clothing.”
“Heard that myself, Peter. Don’t know if it is actually true or not. It sounds outrageous and highly unlikely, which is good reason to suppose it is correct.”
Peter managed a laugh. The whole world was outrageous, it seemed.
“Should we pay a call on the Redwoods, do you think?”
“Rather not, old chap, unless you particularly wish to.”
“No, not if you don’t want to. What are they doing just now? I vaguely heard that old George had gone to the States but Gus had ended up in France in his place. Good looking girl but I always felt she was more of the man than George could manage. What about Henry? Has he found a backbone?”
“Damned good question, Peter. I am told that Henry has joined one of the cloak and dagger outfits, is overseas performing dark acts in back alleys.”
“I expect he will be good at that, Alfred. Sort of thing that suits him!”
“Yes… Not the most salubrious of characters, young Henry. Some thoroughly unsavoury tendencies, in my opinion. All one hears of spies and such types suggests he is ideally suited for that existence.”
“Essentially idle and expecting to live a life of leisure, never needing to work or to meet responsibilities to his family. He was set up in rooms, was he not, Alfred?”
“He was. A sufficient income and his father available to tidy up debts if any resulted from unavoidable causes. I believe he was already a member of a pair of Soho nightclubs that partake of the nature of the brothel rather than a place of legitimate entertainment. Not the most expensive whorehouses, at that!”
“Unhealthy!”
“Very much so, Peter. A nasty piece of work, Henry Redwood. His father informs me that he is overseas and busy in his employment, but I cannot imagine what he could do that would make him useful to any subterranean department.”
“No more can I, Alfred. What of the girls?”
“Augusta is driving an ambulance with the Belgians. Our people would not accept FANY’s services but the Belgians were glad to take them on and report most positively on their performance. She will not return until the war ends. Victoria is on her way to becoming a tart. If she is not warming an officer’s bed yet it is for lack of opportunity, no other reason. She made a hardly disguised offer to me, a reward for the VC, I believe. Not the most pleasant of females. Henrietta is simply drippy! Not an ounce of go in the girl. I believe she may have a vague intention of consoling Robert in his wounded state. I much hope he will not take her on – he would benefit from an active, go-ahead girl, not from a soppily sentimental weakling!”
“Well put, Alfred! George, of course, has managed to put the Atlantic between himself and the war. A true banker, that man!”
“His father does not think so. He intends to sell up and let George inherit a substantial trust fund and his title. The bank will not fall to George’s inadequate hands.”
“Title?”
“Had you not heard? He has a baronetcy, and apparently for free, awarded for his services to the Treasury. He will be made baron in another couple of years, or so I would expect. Sir George to become Lord Redwood.”
“George to marry into blue blood, one presumes.”
“No. He has already pledged himself to the daughter of an American millionaire.”
“Very wise. He will come out of this war rich and privileged, and untouched by the bloodshed.”
“We shall, if we survive, also be rich, Peter. Father has told me that his financial people have put our money into any number of ‘good things’, have turned our hundreds of thousands into millions already and expect to do better yet. We will not be untouched, however.”
“No more we shall, Alfred. Henry dead, poor lad. Robert never to walk comfortably again. Yourself carrying wounds that will remind you of Flanders as you get older and the arthritis sets in.”
Alfred waited for Peter to complete the survey of the family.
“Yourself, Peter?”
“If I live, Alfred, then I will be a different man to the one I am now. The chances are no more than fifty per cent, I should imagine. String and canvas flying machines are not conducive to healthy, long lives. The Salient was certain to kill me, however. John may well survive – he is a stronger character than me and better able to discipline himself. He is capable of keeping his head down. I am not. Inevitably one day I would want to see what was happening at just the wrong moment. He will maintain self-control. He would make a damned good general, you know. I shan’t!”
“He is most like the Old Man of all of us. A good thing for the eldest to be so!”
“So it is, Alfred. What are we to do? The Redwoods are out. Who is in?”
They visited the Delacroix family, Peter rapidly realising that Mademoiselle was the sole interest of his big brother. He responded by drawing the General to talk about his experiences in the Congo and in his turn giving a description of the fighting in the Salient.
“Obviously, sir, my brother has more of a tale to tell than ever I have.”
The old man shrugged. That was inevitable. Also inevitable was that such a man would not wish to speak at length of his experiences.
“One thing you might perhaps enlighten me upon, Captain Peter. Your Place is a large house but seems to have no more than small gardens surrounding it…”
“My great-grandfather returned from the Indian Mutiny a rich man, sir. He built the Place. It was clear to him that farming was not, and could never be, profitable in England. So, he chose not to purchase land. There is no estate and our wealth has benefitted greatly from that wise decision.”
“The Griffin family is parvenu, you would say, Captain Peter?”
“Not as such, sir. A long line of soldiers going back into the Eighteenth Century, but never more than small squires. The family has risen since the Mutiny. My father is a major general and will probably make lieutenant general this year or next. That will certainly bring a knighthood, may produce a baronetcy. No prospects of a peerage, of course.”
